Category Archives: Bloggery

Talking TERF

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What do you really believe?

That’s a question I have to ask myself every day, along with:

  • Do you believe that there is still no god?
  • Do you believe that science is still a good thing?
  • Are you sure?
  • Do you believe in life after love?

Well aren’t I a big smuggy smug face with all my self-examination? Yes. Yes, I am.

The reason I ask those questions is not because I’m a radiant beacon of self-awareness but because I’m afraid.  It is so easy to be led into a delusion that one is the righteous goodie, when in fact you have slipped unnoticeably into the role of the moustache twirling bad guy. 

For instance, I used to be vehemently opposed to people who are religious.  I believed that anybody who held any religious faith were at best idiots and at worst mentally ill. It took me a long time to look at my own beliefs and realise that I had become a nasty bigot. What does it matter to me if somebody chooses to have religious beliefs? It is only a problem if those beliefs are used by people to do harm. Then let’s face it, those people lose their faith long before they chose to replace it with anger and hatred.  So being angry at religion is a waste of time and energy.  The people who do those things are just using a name of something better than them. They may as well be doing it in the name of Woolworths.

“Praise Pick & Mix!” *boom*

These days I’m rather sanguine when it comes to religious folk. They exist, I exist, and we don’t really bother each other. Except when I hang around church fetes buying delicious chutneys. I love delicious chutneys.

So why am I saying all this stuff with words?

Mainly because I need to confess my intransigence before accusing others of the same.

The others I wish to accuse on this day and at this hour are Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminists (TERFS),

It is possible, if you have little contact with the LGBT community, that you will have never heard of TERFS. Unfortunately I have, and I want to talk about them.

TERFS are a hate group directed at transgender people. Like the delusional Pick and Mix bombers I mentioned earlier, they are completely certain that they are morally correct  and believe that they are acting in the best interests of the human race.

Their techniques include shouting ‘penis’ at transgender women in the street, hijacking pride parades and accusing trans men of being butch lesbians. They have created websites designed to fan hysteria about the ‘transgenderization’ of children. Sites disguised as educational tools, purporting to give parents the ‘real’ information about the ‘Transgender Narrative’. Yes, I am using a lot of quotation marks.

Their techniques will be familiar to people who have studied the rise of Donald Trump in America and our own home-grown political manoeuvrings around Brexit. Like the National Socialists of 1930s, they believe that they are protecting people from their definition of degenerate beings.

Sadly, like the Pick and Mix bomber their enemies don’t really exist. They have shaped monsters out their own ignorance and stupidity and allowed them to grow and flourish in their own shit.

The greatest of these myths is that trans people are trying to convert children to what they call ‘transgenderism’. They actually believe that trans people are the Borg!

It pains me to see the word feminist used by these people. I was brought up to believe in feminist ideals and I have always endeavoured to be an example of how masculinity can embrace the feminine, even as a cis and gay man. So let me deliver this warning.  If you are a TERF, you are part of the dark forces that are engulfing the world and history will judge you as it has other groups like yours. Is that really how you want to be remembered? What do you realky believe?

Sadly, if you are a TERF you will never read this because I have a penis.

PENIS!

Macaloon

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What’s this? A new blog after only a year?
 
Yes, I know I am super slack but these days but I find it difficult to write a blog until I’m excited about something or something has annoyed me to the point of breaking my silence.
 
Well today is about something that has excited me – in a very geeky/nerdy way.
 
Those people who know me also know that I my phone of choice has always been the iPhone. So, whenever the time comes to upgrade I generally go for the next model up. However, in January I decided to throw caution to the wind and instead of ordering an iPhone 7, I ordered a Samsung Galaxy S8.
 
It didn’t stop there, either. Because I had an Apple watch I simply had to order a Samsung watch to go with my lovely shiny – oh so shiny- phone.
 
Yes, it was chunkier than my shiny Apple watch and wasn’t very pretty but it worked well and I got used to its huge and charmless screen.  Then the disaster. Within three days of being full Android, I dropped my trousers.  To be precise, I lowered my trousers to my ankles before being at stool and my phone dropped a whole one inch out of my pocket and onto the vinyl flooring of the gents loo in my office and an arc of cracked glass appeared across the top of the phone’s screen.
 
After sobbing for several hours, I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to live with a cracked phone for two years.  So after the empty stable purchase of a glass screen protector, I continued to use the phone for another couple of weeks. When it happened again. Same toilets, same distance. The screen protector shattered, as did the screen underneath.
 
 However, the screen still displayed a picture so I figured that I’d push on, I could tolerate a smashed phone. I am a very tolerant person.
 
Then I leaned against a wall with the phone in my pocket and the screen crumbled to dust.
 
Fuck!
 

Picture of an iPhone 7 Plus Box

So what to do?
 
Well I had three choices: pay Samsung £240 to fix the screen, pay a dodgy company £150 to only replace the glass or throw my toys out of my pram and buy a nearly new iPhone 7 plus. So I bought the iPhone 7 plus.
 
 Picture of an Apple Watch on Martin's Wrist
The new phone duly arrived and it was heavy and solid, it was sleek and beautiful and I vowed never to fall out with Apple products again. Then it escalated. Before long, I’d bought a new Apple watch to go with my shiny phone and shortly after  I spotted an eight year old, battered iMac on eBay and I bought it. It cost less than my PCs video card, so I figured I’d got a bargain and I justified the purchase as a way to save space. Our house is very small and we’re trying to sell it, so a desktop machine than can be put away is an enormous boon. Just like Michael Elphick in Eastenders.
 
 
The iMac was battered, having been dropped down some stairs but the screen had been replaced and everything worked, so I set about it with some Mister Sheen and polished it till it shone, I straightened the dented aluminium case, buffed up the screen and switched it on.
 
It was beautiful. The screen was bright and clear, applications launched like they had been lubricated by divine spunk. Installing software was so quick! Just drag the files into the application folder and no waiting an hour while Windows puts in three thousand registry entries before you can even launch an application. It just works.
 Picture of an iMac
 
Sitting in front of it made me want to make things. So, in one day I created two silly videos, edited a podcast and wrote this blog. That is more creative output than I’ve achieved in twelve months!
 
Though I am worried that I have developed a bipolar disorder and that the my increase in creativity and increased is simply a symptom of encroaching mental illness.  Naaa, it’s just the shiny machine that’s done it.
 
Thinking about it; isn’t Stephen Fry is a a big Mac fan? Mmm Big Mac…
 

We Need to Talk About Devon

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On the 3rd April 2017 and after 44 years of living in Halifax I’m moving to Okehampton in Devon.

This has been a devastating blow for my existing plan of living here until old age, dying penniless in a council flat during a heat wave and being cut off my mattress a week later by bored council workers in hazmat suits. However I haven’t given up on that dream entirely and the moment I feel a bit peaky I’m ordering a load of milk, a council flat and heading back up North like a dying salmon.

As decisions go, you would think that moving to a beautiful part of the country and marrying the man you love would be something of a no brainer. However when you’ve never really lived anywhere else, that decision can be incredibly tough.

Those of you who went to university may have experienced this already. However to do it in your mid forties is a wrench. This town is part of me. I know every corner of it. I know how it smells in spring, summer autumn and winter. It’s in my blood and I love it.

This is a failing my grandfather shared. Apart from his wartime service with the RAF he was born, lived and died in Halifax and was unhappy for the greater part of his adult life. Perhaps there’s a lesson there?

Back in the 1990s I had an interview at a temp agency in Bradford. After the usual typing and spreadsheet tests, I was ushered into a room for a chat with a ‘recruitment professional’. She read my application form with surprise

“Is this right? Are you from Halifax?”

“Yes,” I said, nervously

“We don’t often get people from Halifax. They never want work anywhere else.”

It’s easy to see why. Halifax had the headquarters of the Halifax Building Society, the Nestle factory which makes Quality Street, After Eights and Easter eggs and the McVitie’s factory churning out Jamaica Ginger Cake. Then there were a multitude of large insurance companies, small businesses and so many pubs, clubs and restaurants that coach parties would come to the town for a night out. Jobs were everywhere. So working out of town was simply unnecessary.

So here I am packing up my worldly goods, hugging my nearest and dearest and heading down the motorway to the land of Ambrosia.

On Saturday an era ended, when for the final time in my little cottage, we did a five hour live podcast stream for Comic Relief. When it was over I handed the recording equipment to Andrew and Lisa to store in their Harry Potter cupboard in Manchester and waved them and Dill the podcast hound goodbye and a few hours later a slightly drunk Tom.

On Sunday morning the living room that had been crowded with microphones and good company felt incredibly empty and I found myself pre-emptively missing my friends and began to sob, big wet grief sobs, like when you’re a kid and a something makes your world fall apart. Then I had a Pot Noodle.

‘Why on earth are you putting yourself through this?’ I can hear you punching at your screen.

Love, dear reader. Stupid, soppy, romantic, idiotic love.

People do extraordinary things when they’re in love. There’s often no logic to it and in our case we’re breaking all the rules. Our wedding is on a tiny budget and will be organised in about six weeks and we’ve not known each  very long at all. However the one thing that living 300 miles apart has taught us is how to talk to each other. We’ve learned how to communicate. We’re complicated, silly, giggly and grumpy people. He is an optimist who wants to save the planet and I’m a nihilist who thinks it is beyond saving. However, fundamentally we are similar and I want to spend the rest of my  life  with him, or until he gets bored and dumps me for a supermodel.

As some of you may know, the announcement of an impending marrage leads to a sudden flood of unsolicited advice. This is just some  I’ve received:

“You’re going to irritate each other. You need to push through that until you stop noticing the things that irritate you.”

“Walk away from arguments. If you stay and shout it out you can really hurt each other. Go away and calm down.”

“Don’t use something that your other half did wrong in the past to justify something you’re doing now.”

“Remember why you fell in love. Try to remind yourself every day. Tell each other that you love each other.”

“Compromise Martin. You’re going to have trouble with that because you’ve been alone for so long. Learn how to do it.”

“Take some time apart. Make sure you spend time with your friends separately.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff. If one of you forgets to buy the eggs, it’s not the end of the world.”

Then there was the sex advice.

“Make time for sex. It’s so important to maintain that physical closeness.”

“Be honest in the bedroom. If they can do better, tell ‘em. If they smell, tell ‘em. I send my husband to the shower regularly.”

“You’ll find that you may fancy each other less as time goes by. Go to a hotel when that happens.” (Not sure what that will do. Perhaps it’s the tiny soaps?)

Then the divorcees chipped in.

“Never let another person into the marriage, they will kill it.”

“You’re partners in a business. Sometimes you need to treat it that way. If they’re causing that business to fail, fire them and go it alone.”

“If they cheat on you once, they’ll cheat on you again. Divorce them. No second chances.”

“Just get a dog.”

“That’s mental.”

Right, I have Marvel Blu-Rays to pack. Last one to the Belstone tea room is a woofter.

x

LGBT History Month 2017

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Well it’s here again, LGBT History Month.

Most people will leave this particular aspect of February unmarked in their diary. After all, unless you identify as part of the rainbow alphabet you may be forgiven for thinking that it doesn’t apply to you. However, if you dig a little deeper you find that LGBT history is the history of us all. There have been plenty of notable figures over the centuries who have been LGB or T. It was just that they couldn’t tell us at the time. We often only discover such truths when they drop dead and a dusty diary of hidden desire is plucked from the bottom of a long forgotten trunk.

This year is very special one. It marks 60 years since the Wolfenden Report recommended the legalisation of consensual homosexual acts between two men (it was never illegal between two women). Yes, you heard right bitchas! The WOLFENDEN report. How cool is my name now? Yeah, you can touch me. It is also 50 years since parliament acted on the report. OK, it did take a decade to get through parliament. Better late than never I suppose…and the age of consent was set at a ludicrous 21 and stayed that way until 1994. Which makes me technically a criminal. What with that and the home taping.

Anyway, before 1967 homosexuality was very illegal. In fact the police were so obsessed with catching men who touched each other’s winkles, they would hang about in lavatories dangling their own like worms on a fish hook. They still did that until recently..to be honest I think they just liked it.

If you were caught in the bad old days, your punishment would be deeply unpleasant. Between 1533 and 1828, you would be hanged. After 1828 you would probably spend a few years behind bars doing hard labour. Believing as they did, that picking apart tarred ropes and smashing rocks would have any hardened bummer desiring wholesome boobies in a jiffy*.

The first half of the 20th Century wasn’t much better, what with imprisonment or chemical castratration awaiting you if you so much glanced at another man’s meat and two veg. If you happened to be over the sea in Germany during WW2 you may have found yourself in a concentration camp. Which, considering how many Nazi commanders were found in bed with blonde boys during the night of the long knives, was just a little bit hypocritical.

Transgender people are conspicuous by their absence in our history books. Often misgendered or misidentified as effeminate men or butch women, they have been overlooked or forgotten by eager historians only interested in tales of forbidden sexuality. So you may be forgiven for thinking that transgender people are a recent invention, especially as they have only been allowed to change their legal gender since 2005.  It is telling that even now the word ‘misgendered’ is showing as unrecognised on this computer’s spellchecker. However trans people have been around for..well, how long has humanity been around?

Let’s face it. Attitudes to bi people have been in the Stone Age for a very long time. They were considered by many gay and lesbian people to be tourists. Thought to be simply unwilling to commit to a single binary identity, bi people would often find a less than warm welcome in the community. At this point I would like to a tell you that I never shared those views. However I did. In fact I remember once saying to a bisexual man who asked me out in the 1990s ‘sorry, I just don’t trust bisexuals’. What a stupid young man I was. Fearful that we would fall in love and he would leave me for a more convenient life with a wife and 3 kids.

Since then I have examined that prejudice and discovered that bisexuality is not a fear of commitment to one person but simply an attraction to multiple genders. Believe me, if a bi person picks you to spend their life with, you’d better be grateful. Because they had all of humanity to choose from.

So LGBT history hasn’t been a picnic and recent events in the United States have reminded us that people will always want to take hard won rights away. The monsters will be defeated eventually but until then, we all need to be strong. Not only those of us who are part of this community but our friends and allies who are so very vital to permanently securing those rights.

This blog post has only scratched the surface of LGBT history and let’s face it, it’s not just LGBT anymore. The alphabet gets bigger every year with more and more people discovering who they are and adding letters and new colours to a rainbow that will shine on long after Donald J.Trump has turned to orange dust.

*Wholesome Boobies in a Jiffy is the unmade sequel to Se7en.

  1. For some more information here is a graphic sent to me by a purveyor of rude things. 

A Special Podcast

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Well it took weeks to write, a day  to record and 26 hours to edit. So I hope you will enjoy this special. We made it for Christmas but it has so little Christmas in it, you can listen to it any time. Christmas is a bad time to release excessively ambitious podcasts as everybody is too busy to listen to them…we did that. So here it is after Christmas. 

You can also grab it at iTunes

And at the podcast website brainjam.co.uk.

Trans Allies and Where to Find Them?

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This year marks the 20th anniversary of my coming out as gay to my family and friends.

Back in those days ‘coming out’ was quite a daunting thing to do, not like these days with all the hover acceptance and flying equality. If you’re hetrosexual you’ll probably never have to tell your parents that you like to kiss willies or tongue tickle a clitoris. OK, you don’t say it like that exactly, but let’s face it, sexuality is about who you are sexually attracted to. So stating that you are attracted to people of the same gender you are pretty much fessing up to having sex with them. So, if like me, you were indoctrinated by the Catholic church to believe that sex was a dirty and wicked sin, you can imagine how mortifying it all was.

Anyway in 2005 I turned my back on the LGBT community and went into effective retirement from sexual life. The perfect pecs on the Gay Times front cover, the clubs that made me feel bad about my own skinny then doughy exterior and my inability to earn the “the pink pound” made me realise that I had nothing to offer that world.  I’d had quite enough of falling in love with the wrong people. So the prospect of a relationship gradually faded, until one day I found myself saying to a friend “why would I want a relationship? That would be awful! Having somebody cluttering up my bed and being forced to negotiate with them to watch my favourite TV show, not likely. I’ll be single until I die.”

However fate is a bitch and only three weeks later I walked into a room and met the man I fell in love with. So now I’m paying attention and the news isn’t good.

First I re-joined Stonewall  and had a look at what they were up to these days. Seems that a lot had been happening in my time away. I knew that the equal marriage act had been passed of course and that they were doing a lot of work helping overseas organisations campaign against some horrific human rights violations. However, I also noticed that they were finally fully representing trans people, who  had been pretty much ignored in the past.

Then I began to do my own research and discovered that there is a vast amount of work to do in this country around the rights of trans people. Currently the Gender Recognition Act is a horror story of legislation. It is far more interested in protecting the rights of cisgender people like me, than those of the people it is supposed to be supporting.

For instance, did you know that if a trans person wants to obtain a Gender Recognition Certificate they need to have:

• An original or certified copy of a birth certificate
• Copies of any official documents that show their birth name has changed to their current name
• Proof that they’ve lived in their transitioned gender for 2 years.

They also need:

• A report from a doctor registered with the General Medical Council (GMC) or from psychologist registered with the Health and Care Professions Council detailing any treatment they’ve had to transition, e.g. hormone treatment or surgery.

It doesn’t end there, and brace yourself because this one’s a doozy. If they are married they need to get permission from their spouse to legally change their gender.
Yes, you read that correctly. Their partner has veto power over something fundamentally personal because our politicians were worried about cisgender people being ‘forced’ into a same sex marriage. Now this is easily obtained if they have a supportive spouse. But what if you’re fleeing domestic violence or your spouse has run away to a different country? You can’t just divorce them, because divorce takes time and a controlling abuser will fight it.

Then to add insult to injury, a person wanting to obtain a GRC has to pay a £140 administration fee, which they lose if the application is rejected for any reason, effectively pricing out people on a low income.

And let’s not forget that to get to this stage many of the applicants will have transitioned and have already obtained reports from three psychologists and myriad medical professionals. So asking for more ‘proof’ to obtain a GRC is simply insane.

So why do I care?

Well I care because not that long ago Gay and Lesbian people were fighting for equality and in this country and that fight has been largely won. Now trans people are fighting for their rights and it is important that we all stand up and support them.

Things are getting better. The BBC and Channel 4 are doing great work in improving trans visibility on their networks with shows like Boy Meets Girl and Banana and a recent report by the House of Commons Women and Equalities Committee has advised that the GRA is amended and a self-declaration system introduced. However the GRC remains and they have steadfastly refused to make any recommendations regarding the spousal veto.

So there you go and as we used to shout in the olden days “I’m queer on a peer, over here. No here!” OK! I’m a little out of practice.

My Year in Review – 2015

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It has been a while since I’ve written one of these, so let me begin.

January
Wake up without a hangover, having made the New Year resolution to only use crack cocaine. Spend the rest of the month committing petty crime.

February
Suspended sentence and ordered to attend The Priory clinic. Spend a week vomiting and seeing things, before realising that I am actually in a Premier Inn. Pay large damages bill and go home cured of the crack.

March
Begin writing my first novel but run out of ideas after three words. Spend the rest of the month watching pornography.

April
Catch the Black Death off an antique toilet seat and are poked into hospital by a big man. Begin writing my second novel but blood comes out of my armpits and fuses my laptop.

May
Visit my fictional agent who puts me up for a fictional part in Doctor Who. Spend three fictional days in Cardiff wearing pretend makeup. Taking bookings for conventions now. Have a birthday and drink a yard of petrol.

June
In coma.

July

Awake to see my friends dressed in tin foil hats pretending it is 2000 years in the future. Throw a wee bottle at them and try to drink the bed. Doctors fill me with gravy (I think) and make me sing all of Les Miserables in the nude.

August
Begin a small business selling commemorative weaponry. John F Kennedy rifles selling like hot cakes. 

Sell hot cakes instead.

Arrested for selling hot cakes to criminals. Small fine and ten minutes community service.

September

Uneventful beginning to the month. Buy three bags of sprouts from the ironmonger and throw them away discovering they are actually small green light bulbs.

Receive a phone call from the government. They ask me to deliver my seminar on ‘How Not to Confuse Light Bulbs with Sprouts’ in Exeter at the end of the month for £2.50 and a kiss. I agree to do it.

Arrive at the conference hall and set up my zither and lightning rod. 

Delegates arrive and I find myself unable to take my eyes of the young man sitting opposite me who
quotes Doctor Who and I melt.

Reconstitute myself with a freezer and deliver the seminar, only losing one delegate to the lightning this time. Afterwards I spend two weeks talking and giggling with the young man.

Time to leave so I give the young man my number and feel sure that I’ll never hear from him again.

On the train home and the young man texts me. We talk for three months.

October

The world is only background noise. There is only me and him and nothing else matters. We fall in love.

November

Pull myself back into the real world long enough to record a new Brainjam with Lisa, Tom and Andrew. Then slip quietly away again with the love of my life.

December

Busy! Must buy presents! Must drink beer! Must wrap presents! Must drink beer! Must drink wine!

New years eve! Must drink wine!

Happy New Year to you and your loved ones.

“The strange thing is I don’t actually own a dog.”

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I bloody love dogs. In fact for the first 19 years of my life, you would have been hard pressed to see me more than a few feet away from one. However that changed the night I handed over the still warm and lifeless body of our little lurcher to the vet, after she gasping her final breaths on our living room carpet. After that, I said goodbye to our canine chums, deciding that the heartbreak was just too much.

Then in 2008, Andrew began seeing a woman called Lisa. Lisa was an animator who worked for the lovely Cosgrove Hall but more than that, Lisa owned a dog called Bob. One day Lisa and Andrew asked me to look after Bob for a couple of hours and I agreed. By this point Bob was already suffering from cancer and had lost a leg. However by the time Lisa and Andy had returned, I’d bought him a toy and stocked up on dog treats. I looked after him a couple more times before he passed away and I was reminded that a home is just better with a dog in it.

After a suitable period of mourning Lisa and Andrew adopted a lurcher called Hunter. The first time I met Hunter was when I opened my front door to a gangly, jumpy, chewy whirlwind. He burst into my living room and nearly knocked me to floor before diving head first into my kitchen flip-top bin (something he still does when he visits). Of course by now he was no longer called Hunter but went by the much nicer name of Dill.

So I was doggy ga-ga again and Dill quickly became the face of The Gentleman’s Review podcast. Let me be clear though. Dill is Lisa and Andrew’s hound, not mine. I say this because I tend to tweet lots of photos of him when he comes to visit and people often think that he’s my pooch. In fact he’s become so linked with me in the minds of my family that he featured on my 40th birthday cake.

So even though I love ‘em, the strange thing is, I don’t actually own a dog.

As an addition, I’d like to say how sad I am to hear about the loss of Floyd the lurcher who’s Twitter updates always made me happy, though I think he may have had help. On the same day my friend Becky lost her lovely lurcher Flossy who was a three and a half legged wonder of the world. Rest in piece my furry chums.

Even though this blog has its fair share of sadness, I would still like to encourage those of you who are looking for a new hound to consider adopting one from your local rescue charity. However, if like me, you work all day and live in rented accommodation. You can always donate some money to keep the lights on and the bellies, of humanity’s best friend, full.

Podding

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This year is my sixth year of podcasting, so I thought I’d write about why me and my chums do it.

A couple of years ago in Edinburgh I spoke to a reasonably well known comedian who told me that he couldn’t understand why people did podcasts when the audiences for them are so small. He was right of course, unless you have an existing audience base built up through years of live work it is unlikely that your podcast will trouble the iTunes charts.

So why bother?

We bother because there is something wonderful about writing, performing, editing and publishing something yourself. It’s nice if lots of people listened to it too but audience figures are not the driving force. It is the joy of produce something with very little money that is only limited by your own talent. In my case, extremely limited. In fact you may well call it a hobby and if that hobby suddenly becomes successful as in the case of the Answer Me This and Welcome to Night Vale, all the better. But being in the iTunes chart should never be a reason for continuing or ending a podcast. The shows I do with my friends are not in the charts and probably never will be but we still get a several hundred downloads a month. The way I look at it is if you were doing a live sketch show for 800 people, you’d feel that you were doing quite well. So why bother that you’re not getting ten thousand? You still have an audience.

Podcast audiences are the nicest around. They support podcasts like a football fan supports their favourite team. Recently we unexpectedly found ourselves in a tricky situation. The sound recorder we had used since 2008 to record all our podcasts died and the problem could not be repaired. We had tried in the past to record podcasts using a variety of computers but had found that the computers generated so much electronic noise that the recordings were unusable. So we were stuck. None of us are particularly well off so the £100 required to replace it could as we have been £1,000,000. That’s when I hit upon the idea of starting a funding page, I quite honestly didn’t believe anybody would donate money to keep us going but I submitted the page and told the people of Twitter and Facebook what we were doing and within 80 minutes we had passed our target. This completely stunned me and I was speechless for some minutes that such kind people had put their hands in their pocket to save our enterprise before being moved to tears by some of the kind comments made with the donations. No, we’re not at the top of the iTunes charts but we do have the best listeners in the world. Beat that ‘Friday Night Comedy from BBC Radio 4’.

In the spirit of supporting ones favourite podcasts, here are mine in no particular order.

Vitriola Music

Adorable comedians Michael Legge and Robin Ince discuss their favourite music and musicians in a bid to encourage people to buy more records and tapes. It is a joyous half hour of old men shouting at each other, imagine a lovely Statler and Waldorf and you’ll be somewhere close to how entertaining this can be.

POTOm

To call The Trap a sketch group would be like calling Albert Einstein ‘a bit brainy’. They are in fact a quantum singularity of hilarity created by the critical mass of Jeremy Limb, Paul Litchfield and Dan Mersh. Their podcast is called ‘POTOm’ and it makes me hurt laughing. It is also the reason for Brainjam’s house style of referencing old radio and TV shows. Being similar ages to Dan, Paul and Jeremy we often found that we were treading on each others toes and I’ve lost track of the times I’ve deleted sketches after hearing a funnier version weeks before we were set to record. In short POTOm is the gold standard for comedy podcasts.

The Angelos & Barry Show

Angelos Epithemiou and Barry from Watford have teamed up for this ridiculously funny podcast. Best not to listen while using heavy machinery as my mate crushed his head while laughing near a mangle.

The Colonel’s Radio Show

The Colonel and Sage Macorkadale have been a fixture on my iPod and iPhones for many years now. The brainchild of father and son double act Josh and George Tobin-Dudley it is a regular tour de force of character comedy. One day I hope to see them do this on a stage in front of an audience.

Podcasta Non Grata

Adem Koci off of Australia talks about the things that vex his brain. It is the only podcast on this list not on iTunes.

Welcome to Night Vale

Set in the community radio station of a small desert town called Night Vale, Cecil Palmer – who from what we can tell is the only presenter on the station, narrates the strange adventures of the town’s population.

The Bugle

You know what this is. If you don’t, shame on you.

Of course it would be remiss of me if I didn’t plug our podcasts. To make it easy just go to brainjam.co.uk, where there are links to all five of our podcasts.

I’m away for a weee. Byeee!

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